music

Backstage Confidential

Life on tour—whether staying at a Red Roof Inn or a four-star hotel—has a magic all its own. In an adaptation from her memoir about life as a music journalist, the author charts the stages of rock-and-roll stardom and the complex hierarchy of the backstage pass.

My first job in the music business was in 1969, working part-time for Richard Robinson, who had a syndicated radio show and newspaper music column. Richard, who would become my husband, opened the door and I walked through it to a life in rock and roll. My four-decade “career” wasn’t planned; it was, to paraphrase Keith Richards, “a lucky accident”—it was a time when things just happened. Since the 1970s, I’ve spent countless hours in recording studios, dressing rooms, motels, hotels, backstage and at the side of the stage in little clubs, large arenas, and massive stadiums. I’ve interviewed nearly all the major—and many minor—musicians of the last 40 years, including the Rolling Stones, Led Zeppelin, Patti Smith, John Lennon, Michael Jackson, U2, and Eminem. I was always a huge music fan, and when I started out, with all those free albums and concert tickets, it never felt like a real job. And, now, still loving the music as I do—from doo-wop to hip-hop—it still doesn’t.

I love hotels. Put me in a Red Roof Inn on a highway outside of Pittsburgh after driving 17 hours in a van with a “baby” (young, new) band, or the Beverly Wilshire in L.A. with the Rolling Stones, or the Royal Monceau in Paris with U2, and I’m happy. Obviously I’m happier in the Beverly Wilshire or the Royal Monceau, but the escape value is the same. There are no responsibilities. It’s private, anonymous. In most cases, there’s room service. And in the 1970s, when I went on tours with Led Zeppelin and the Rolling Stones and Patti Smith and the Clash and Aerosmith and the Who, it really was an escape from real life.

Except for the fancier hotels, in 1975, room service always left a lot to be desired. There were “Cheese Festivals”—slices of Kraft American cheese, provolone, or the occasional Swiss, garnished with a strawberry or some sad-looking grapes. There was “hand-breaded shrimp.” Tomato and egg wedges on a bed of iceberg lettuce. Except for two hotels that had 24-hour room service on the Rolling Stones’ 1975 tour, room service usually stopped at midnight—even at luxury hotels like the Beverly Wilshire and the Ambassador East in Chicago—and often at six P.M. Sometimes I would order something in the afternoon so I’d have it in the room when I returned, ravenous, after midnight. In the hotels of Detroit, Kansas City, Milwaukee, or Buffalo, before food became such a big deal in the U.S., before there ever was a cheese section in an American supermarket, food was often a problem. However, when you were with the Rolling Stones or Led Zeppelin, there were catered meals on the plane or backstage.

In Buffalo in 1975, an invitation to the Stones from Harvey Weinstein, who was then the local rock promoter with Harvey and Corky Productions, read:

You are humbly invited to a buffet dinner, Sunday, June 15th at 7:30 p.m. in Buffalo Memorial Auditorium Party Room. The dinner has been specially prepared by Vincent, the head chef of Mulligan’s Private Club, for your enjoyment. We know what it is like to be on a hectic tour, and we hope you can find a few minutes to unwind and relax under our care. The menu: Spinach Salad, Homemade French bread, Seafood Platter—including Clams Casino, Shrimps, Oysters, etc.—Lobster, Veal Oscar—the specialty of the house. Dessert—a Mulligan’s Mud Pie (a Buffalo favorite) and fresh strawberries. Vincent will be on hand for your dining pleasure.

This sort of backstage spread was put on only for a band of the stature of the Rolling Stones, which meant it was only done for the Rolling Stones. Then again, it might have been billed to the band, which could have been the reason that Led Zeppelin never indulged in this sort of backstage culinary excess. The promoter Bill Graham always went all out, food-wise. Backstage at Madison Square Garden, Bill brought in hot-dog carts and egg-cream stands. To some of us who just a few years earlier had been going to press parties mainly for the free food, this display was very exciting. However, it soon wore off. Half of these backstage events went unattended; the band couldn’t be bothered. And by the time anyone who had actual work to do went to eat before the show, the spinach salad was wilted and the seafood had drawn flies. I always felt slightly sad for these cooks who went to such great lengths to prepare special meals for the Rolling Stones, who never showed up. (Some of the chefs, of course, promoted these jobs on the menus for their own restaurants: “Private chef to the Rolling Stones” and such.) The only band member that I recall ever going and thanking these guys on any kind of regular basis was Mick Jagger. But I don’t remember any of the band eating anything at all at a venue before the show.

Lisa Robinson with David Bowie at the 1975 Grammy Awards.

In 1976, the New York rock and punk scene was made up of the CBGB’s bands and the few music writers who loved them. In total, this may have consisted of about 60 people. This small scene did have great influence, but, like any scene, it just sort of happened. A bunch of people formed bands and had nowhere to play. They found a stage. Another bunch of people heard about those bands and went to see them play. Every night. It was similar to when Max’s Kansas City had its moment: if you skipped one night, you might have missed something. At CBGB’s, there was no velvet rope at the entrance. There was no big deal about “getting in.” There was no “list.” The same people who went all the time went all the time. Since we edited Rock Scene—which became a kind of house fanzine for CBGB’s—Richard, Lenny Kaye, and I were among those who just went all the time. I didn’t have to call a publicist or get a laminated all-access pass or a wristband to go “backstage.” We didn’t have to wait for the lead singer to towel off after the performance and receive people. At CBGB’s, there was no toweling off—there were no towels. To get backstage, all you had to do was walk a few feet past the stage to the back hallway, to one of the crummy rooms on the right where Patti Smith or Joey Ramone would be sitting on the lumpy sofa. We’d all sit around with a few bottles of beer and just hang out. It was easy then to just hang out. It still was possible to discover something—either hearing about it from your friends or stumbling across it yourself. It wasn’t already written about in New York magazine before it had a chance to breathe.

‘Here comes success . . . Here comes my Chinese rug,” Iggy Pop sang in “Success,” one of my all-time favorite songs. I’d seen so many bands go through the stages from struggle to success, and the pattern was usually the same. In Stage One, they were young. They were sexy. They had nothing to lose. They wore some version of their everyday clothes onstage. It took two weeks to make an album. Then came attention (if it came) and some success. In Stage Two, a band moved from a van to a tour bus, or to coach seats on flights from city to city. If they got really big, edging toward Stage Three, it was more “cost-effective” for them to charter their own plane. The rationale was they could fit 12 people on a private jet for the same price as 12 first-class tickets. Sort of. Plus, they weren’t hassled in airports. Each band member had a bodyguard. The band had large dressing rooms backstage. In arenas, there were private dressing rooms with even more private inner dressing rooms, with security guards standing outside the doors. There were extra rooms off the backstage hallways to house the trunks with the band’s traveling stage wardrobe. Their production team had an office backstage. There was a greenroom with food and wine for their guests. It took around six months to make an album. And then full-fledged Stage Three or maybe Stage Four of all this was the move to stadiums. More of their fans could be accommodated. It supposedly thwarted the ticket scalpers (except it didn’t). The band had a stylist who oversaw its onstage costumes. And, finally, the band made crazy money. Along with those multi-million-dollar-grossing stadium tours came the houses in Malibu. By now, it might take well over a year to record an album. And a band in Stage Four had all the accoutrements that accompany big-time rock success—including, but not limited to, the plane, the police escorts, the private chefs, the grass-fed beef, and the complicated, political hierarchy of the backstage pass.

TITANIUM

Backstage passes reflect status. The first time I was made aware of this was when I traveled with the Rolling Stones in 1975. The entire touring party had laminated photo passes that allowed us to go anywhere backstage. This became the norm for a major group. Clubs and smaller halls didn’t always have this pass setup, but as soon as a band made it to arenas or stadiums, the elaborate pass situation was standard for what goes on behind the scenes. The first and lowest backstage pass is the stick-on “After Show” pass for the greenroom mob scene. This literally is a square or circular or triangular piece of fabric with paper on the back that you peel off and stick onto (and ruin) your clothes. Next is the stick-on “V.I.P.” pass for the “pre-show” greenroom mob scene. (I always thought it would be funny if some band had a pass that led to a door that opened right into the parking lot outside the venue.) The next level is the laminated “V.I.P. Guest” pass for a “band room.” It isn’t really a band room; it’s a “meet and greet” room where the band—or, in the case of U2, Bono—might make an appearance before the show. After the V.I.P. Guest pass comes the “Staff” laminate, with no photo, which allows the bearer to move freely around the backstage area—except in the band’s dressing rooms. Then there is the “All Access” photo laminate, but you still might need an “escort” with a better pass to take you into the band’s dressing rooms. And then there is the top pass: the “All Access” laminate for friends and family, which allows you to go anywhere, including the band’s dressing rooms and the stage. But still, there might be a sticker or a star on this pass that alerts security just how far you can go: into the band’s private, inner dressing rooms or just the band’s private, outer dressing rooms. The whole structure is byzantine, and familiar only to people who’ve been through all these maneuvers. I recall many a time seeing someone proudly waltz backstage with a stick-on pass on their jacket or jeans, only to watch their face fall when they saw someone else with a laminate. Or those with non-photo V.I.P. laminates glance enviously at those with the photo laminates. The entire pass arrangement is a visual indication of just exactly where you stand with a group. John McEnroe and I became friendly because of just such a situation. In 1978 the Rolling Stones were performing at Madison Square Garden. John was backstage. I was writing for the New York Post, and I was a huge McEnroe fan. I went up to introduce myself to him. He sneered when I mentioned the Post. I pointed to his stick-on pass and pointed to my all-access laminate. No words were needed. It broke the ice; we’ve been good friends ever since.

There is a different pecking order with each band, each arena, each stadium. One band’s all-access laminate means nothing at another band’s show. The musicians, of course, never wear their laminates. (When Pearl Jam’s guitarist Stone Gossard once went onstage wearing his, I assumed it was meant to be ironic. And at the Grammys three years ago, security guards literally stopped Eminem from going backstage for a few minutes because he wasn’t wearing his “credentials.”) Then there are the wristbands. The wristbands—paper or plastic—allow you onto the soundboard. The soundboard is a raised platform either behind or slightly above the actual concert sound equipment. Depending on how complicated or computerized the band’s technology is, there can be multiple soundboards on the side of, or underneath, the stage. There is also a soundboard near the back of the arena or the stadium, a mile away from the stage. It has no seats (although comfy sofas and chairs were on the soundboard at Madison Square Garden for the Jay Z and Kanye West “Watch the Throne” concert). Sometimes in stadiums there are two soundboards. The color of your wristband determines which soundboard you get to stand on. This all sounds ridiculous. But it’s akin to a front-row seat at a fashion show or a seat at a better table at a dinner party. The entire thing is often fraught with anxiety, drama, and dread. But it is a very big deal for those who need the pass for their egos, or to move around freely to do their actual work.

And at the end of the show, the band may not hang around for any greenroom pleasantries after all. Instead, they may decide to do what the British call a “runner”—a race to the cars to beat the traffic while the audience is still screaming for an encore—thereby rendering the backstage pass an artifact rather than a form of currency.

Lisa RobinsonPrior to joining Vanity Fair in 1999, contributing editor LISA ROBINSON was a longtime music columnist for the New York Post, The New York Times Syndicate, the host of syndicated radio and cable TV shows, and edited several rock magazines.